


Small Victories

by Castastrophe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Sherlock is way too obvious, Slight Military Kink, Smut, Top John Watson, Tumblr Prompt, heh, john is way too stubborn, kinda rough sex, well I think I'm funny anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castastrophe/pseuds/Castastrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the tumblr prompt: "John tired of his lack of a sex life, while Sherlock is tired of his brother's snide remarks about his virginity. Maybe the two can help each other out." given to me by kiddilunafanfiction. </p><p>Sherlock considered himself a problem solver. </p><p>John considered Sherlock a problem causer. </p><p>Which is why, he supposed, he could barely manage more of an initial response than a raised brow and a lowered newspaper when the detective had made his latest proposal. </p><p>"I'm not going to sleep with you, Sherlock," John said evenly.</p><p>But Sherlock always seems to know how to get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft's Punchable Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiddiluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiddiluna/gifts).



> This was meant to just be a lil ficlet for a tumblr fill, but oops, I enjoyed the prompt so much that I got extremely carried away and figured why not post it here instead? It's my first Johnlock smut, ohmygosh, so I am so sorry if it's awful.

Sherlock considered himself a problem solver. 

John considered Sherlock a problem causer. 

Which is why, he supposed, he could barely manage more of an initial response than a raised brow and a lowered newspaper when the detective had made his latest proposal. 

"It's logic, John," Sherlock waved a hand airily, "Mycroft, loathe as he'd be to admit it, would then have little reason to bother me beyond his usual overbearing self, and your own needs would be satisfied, meaning that the knot of tension forming in your neck may be released and you'd finally have cause to stop all of your nervous fidgeting at the clinic. I can't imagine the staff there will be overly impressed if it continues."

John carefully folded the paper in his lap, crossing his hands over the top of it as he levelled as calm of a stare in Sherlock's direction as he could manage.  
"I'm not going to sleep with you, Sherlock," John said evenly, as a petulant little scowl began forming on the detective's lips, "Especially not because Mycroft is teasing you about the whole virgin business, and I am more than capable of finding a nice woman to bed, because I am STRAIGHT."

Sherlock scoffed at this and gave a dramatic roll of the eyes, which John returned with equal vigour. His flatmate was mad. What kind of an individual approached the topic of sex so casually, so blatantly...? Sherlock did, of course, and by now, John should not have been surprised. 

"I imagine that I'd enjoy having sex with you, John, and since the topic has been breached, I imagine you'll soon come to realise the same of me," Sherlock offered, as John snorted and picked up his paper once more. 

"We'll see about that."

*+*+*+*+*+*+*

In the days after Sherlock's proposal, John had thought his eyes were near ready to fall from his head with the frequency he was rolling them. For all of the intelligence he had, Sherlock was the least subtle person alive when it came to his attempts of seduction. 

He'd been dressing sharper, suits pressed with a little more care than usual, and whatever product he'd decided to place in his hair was doing wonders for his curls. Beyond that, he'd started wearing cologne, which John wasn't too sure whether he found more concerning or amusing. He sat closer than necessary when they both lounged across the couch, and made sure that knees bumped, offering coy glances at John through thick lashes whenever the doctor decided to cave in and attempt eye contact. 

It would have remained strictly amusing, if the detective kept his antics to Baker Street. As it was, however, John found a flush dusting his ears as he stood by Lestrade and pointedly attempted to ignore Sherlock bending over provocatively and casting glances his way to see if John had noticed. Greg certainly had, if the snort from the DI was any indication.  
"Is he doing what I think he is?" Greg asked, voice thick with amusement.  
"Being a complete prat?" John muttered, "Definitely."  
"Christ, he's about as subtle as a freight train to the face," Lestrade chuckled, as Sherlock placed a pen between his lips and pulled his magnifier from his coat pocket. John merely rolled his eyes. 

With Sherlock's behaviour as it was, it really hadn't surprised John when he was on his way back from the shops and a sleek black car pulled up beside him. He let out an exaggerated sigh as the door opened, and jostled the bags in his arms enough so that he could clamber into the vehicle without spilling the lot everywhere. What DID surprise him, however, was finding out that Mycroft was alone in the back seat, the smallest hint of a smug smile licking at his lips.  
"Has anybody ever told you that you have one of those... Very... punchable faces?" John snipped, and Mycroft merely offered a quirked brow and an almost imperceptible nod.  
"More than once," came the drawled response. 

John knew by now that one of the best ways to get a Holmes to talk was to merely fix them with a stare and shut up.  
"Despite my brother's adamant beliefs, I'm no fool," Mycroft began, and John snorted, even as the older Holmes impatiently rolled his eyes.  
"I know of his intentions with you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft continued, tone serious, "and whilst I appreciate his efforts, I have a wager in regards to-"  
"You're BETTING on your brother's sex life?" John interjected sharply, "Christ, the lot of you are mad."  
"The wager is not with Sherlock, if that is where your concern lies," Mycroft offered patiently, picking at a stray piece of lint on his suit, seemingly bored, "And regardless, it is not the monetary aspect of it that is inspiring me to win this particular wager."  
"Not really the point though, is it?" John frowned, as Mycroft let out an impatient sigh.  
"I believe it would be in everybody's interest if you were to take a break from Sherlock. Perhaps a stint in the countryside for a month or so," Mycroft offered casually, "I would, of course, be more than willing to compensate you for the inconvenience."  
"You're willing to pay me to NOT sleep with your brother, who, by the way, I don't even recall expressing an interest in in the first place," John said slowly, "For the sake of a bloody wager?"  
"Essentially, yes," Mycroft replied simply, and John struggled to understand what could have possibly happened in the Holmes family household for the two brothers to have grown as they had.  
"Well, thanks for the lift," John offered cheerfully, bundling his groceries together as the car pulled up outside their flat, "You're sodding mad, Mycroft Holmes, and from principle alone, I'll have to refuse your proposal."

John pointedly ignored the annoyance all but radiating off of the elder Holmes as he clambered out of the car and up to the steps of 221 Baker Street, just as Mrs. Hudson was on her way out.  
"Oh, John, did you need a hand?" She offered, pulling her bag further up her shoulders as she fumbled with her keys.  
"No thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled and she pat his arm before frowning at the car that was pulling away from the curb.  
"Was that Mycroft? He seldom stops in any more. That boy is a constant worry," she sighed, as a bellow from upstairs caused her to start, "Oh dear, I hope that wasn't anything too serious. God, they're both a bit trying, aren't they?"  
"You could say that," John smiled knowingly, as their landlady pat his shoulder once more and headed out onto the street. 

John locked the door behind him and headed up the stairs, the unmistakable sound of Sherlock stomping around drifting down to him as he did so. By the time John had opened the door of their flat, Sherlock had flung himself onto the couch, one arm across his eyes and the other draping lazily over the cushions and trailing on the floor. His dressing gown was hanging open to reveal worn pyjama pants and a bare chest that--  
"Christ, Sherlock," John breathed, dropping the shopping at the door and moving to stand by the con-sulking detective, "What have you done this time?"  
Despite his eyes being covered, John could still make out the screwing up of his flatmate's face in annoyance, probably for asking 'an OBVIOUS question, John, really', but in the doctor's defence, John wasn't the one with multiple lacerations across his chest. 

John chanced a glance towards the kitchen, where an unknown substance was letting off copious amounts of steam from shattered test tubes across the kitchen counter. John pinched the bridge of his nose and clamped his eyes against the abrupt headache coming on, and became determined not to ask. Instead, he knelt beside Sherlock and peeled aside the dressing gown to prod gently at the detective's chest, causing a small hiss to escape from between Sherlock's teeth.  
"Well, you're not dying," John mused, causing Sherlock to finally drop his arm from his eyes and offer a scathing look. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever words he had on his lips died as he swept a cursory gaze across John.  
"My God, he's predictable," Sherlock huffed, "I'd at least hope you took the money from him this time."  
"You're alright with me taking money NOT to sleep with you?" John teased, and Sherlock's lip curled fractionally.  
"Oh, you will sleep with me, John," Sherlock replied with confidence, throwing his arm back over his eyes, "But the money wouldn't have hurt."

John rolled his eyes and stood up, moving to grab the groceries from the door, before recalling the disaster zone that was the kitchen.  
"Right then," he said firmly, "I'm popping into the shower. I expect the kitchen at least semi sanitary and the groceries away before I get back."  
"You're quite bossy, I hope you know," Sherlock muttered from beneath his gown's sleeve.  
"I'm serious, Sherlock," John pressed, his tone commanding enough that the detective let out a hard done by sigh and gradually began working on pulling himself upright. 

John counted it as a small victory for the day and made his way to the bathroom to wash away the smell of... government... that Mycroft brought with him, and whatever chemical may have clung to him by being in Sherlock's immediate vicinity. 

The Holmes family was going to be the death of him, of that he was certain.


	2. Sherlock's Milk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should point out that I don't have a beta, so feel free to tell me when I goof. Also, this is all done from my phone, so I expect autocorrect may have issues with me at times. Mother ducker.

Rachel was a beautiful woman, of that, John was sure. He'd hardly believed his luck when he'd struck up a conversation with the gorgeous stranger at the supermarket and managed to babble enough to work up the courage to ask her out and she'd actually agreed. 

He'd been a bundle of nerves as he'd gotten ready to meet her, which hadn't been helped at all by the criticising gazes that his housemate kept fixing him with between fiddling with the experiment on his desk. Sherlock was sulking, John knew that, but it didn't make him feel any less self conscious about his appearance. So, in a moment of weakness, he'd stood before Sherlock's ongoing stares and spread his arms. 

"Well?" He huffed, "If you're going to make a comment on how my hair gel blatantly states my lack of a sex life or how my shirt shows how blatantly insecure I am or something as equally ridiculous, you may as well just hurry up and get it over with."

Sherlock's gaze dragged across John's entire frame, before meeting his eyes just briefly and returning to the microscope in front of him.  
"You look... Good," Sherlock remarked casually, and yet another wave of self consciousness swept over John at the implication of that minute pause.  
"Well, Christ, that's not very reassuring at all, is it?" He snapped, caught between the desire to strangle his flatmate and borderline pleading for further explanation. 

Sherlock, however, let out a soft, hard done by sigh, before pulling back from his microscope and turning his attention to the doctor before him.  
"Why you would bother going on a date with someone as dull as a bank teller at all is beyond me," he began, before fixing John with his most attentive stare yet, "But if it was myself you were meeting with, it goes without doubt that we would not be staying to order dessert, should it keep me a second longer from taking you to bed and thoroughly ravaging you from head to toe."

John felt his cheeks all but combust from the remark as he shifted on his feet, temporarily stunned into silence.  
"Right then. Well, I... That's a... That's a good sign, I suppose," John floundered just slightly, as Sherlock offered the barest of smirks and returned to his experiment.  
"Don't forget milk on the way home," the detective remarked distractedly, as John cleared his throat and grabbed his coat.  
"I'm sure you can manage it yourself," John murmured, "Who said I'd be coming home tonight anyway?"  
He opened the door and stepped out, the last thing he heard from his flatmate being a very assured "You will be."

As far as he was concerned, however, Sherlock wasn't ALWAYS right, and dinner with Rachel had so far been going VERY well. She had laughed at every one of John's stories, found his work as a medical professional to be admirable, listened to each of his tales about adventures with Sherlock with rapt interest, and had batted her eyelashes and chewed on her lower lip more than once as conversation had progressed.

Flirting had been carefree and easy, and there was a very obvious chemistry being experienced on both of their behalves. John felt fairly confident that, if nothing else, he and Rachel would easily be able to share a spectacular evening entangled in some sheets together. 

As their meal continued, however, John couldn't help but notice that she gradually slipped into a slightly concerned expression, until finally, he outright asked if she was feeling okay.  
"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she offered a soft, sweet smile, "But, I mean, I was just wondering why it was that you've asked me to dinner?"  
John was confused by the question and said as much, offering a quirked brow.

"After our chat at the shops, I thought that you were, well... Captivating," he explained, "It isn't too frequently that a bloke like me can find a woman who is not only interesting and engaging, but also as beautiful as yourself, and I was interested to see how that might continue if it were to be somewhere other than by a shelf of vegetables."

Rachel, to John's relief, flushed at the compliment as she smiled coyly into her wine glass. However, the concern still remained. As she placed her glass back on the table and spoke, John's good feelings about the evening fell like a lead balloon. 

"Well, it's just... I've read about you and Sherlock in the papers, and..." She paused, twisting her glass between her fingers, "Well, at first I just thought maybe it was all gossip, but you've brought him up so often this evening that I can't help but feel there's a little merit behind the stories. It's pretty obvious that you care quite a lot for him."

John resisted the urge to cuss his flatmate out then and there, and instead shook his head.  
"No, it's not... Sherlock and I aren't... Things aren't like that between us," John smiled reassuringly, and Rachel offered a soft, sad smile in reply.  
"That doesn't mean that you don't want it to be, though, John," she spoke softly, sympathetically, and John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"No, I'm not interested in... I'm straight. I'm not interested in men, especially not Sherlock of all people, and..." John paused when he realised that Rachel's sad smile was still in place, annoyance bubbling through him before he could stop himself, "He's the one who's trying to bloody sleep with me, not the other way around!"

Rachel reached into her handbag then, standing as she did so and placing a hand on John's shoulder as she placed some money on the table.  
"I really did have a lovely night, John," she offered, leaning down to kiss his cheek as panic welled in the doctor's stomach, "I really do hope that everything works out between the two of you. Goodnight."  
"Rachel, wait, you really have it all wrong, I..." John urged, as she wordlessly squeezed his shoulder and headed for the door. 

John rest his elbows on the table then and propped up his head as he internally struggled to reign his frustration in. Sherlock wasn't even THERE and he was still being London's biggest cock block. It was a thought that stuck with him as he paid for the meal, and on the entire cab ride home, giving him ample time to become adamantly fuming. By the time he opened the door to their flat, he was murderous. 

"Ah, you're back," Sherlock commented absently from the same spot John had left him in, "You remembered the milk, yes?"  
"You absolute PRAT," John snapped, tossing his coat over his chair and slamming the door behind him, "if it weren't for all of your bloody flirting, and the fact that you never bloody deny it when people imply that we're involved, I wouldn't--"

"Think about it so often? Subconsciously wish it were true?" Sherlock interrupted, and John felt his fingers curl into fists of his own accord.  
"You... Are a delusional, self centred, colossal arse, Sherlock Holmes," John ground out through his teeth, "And it would take a truly desperate man to tolerate you."

He only just managed to catch the frown his housemate gave him, having finally looked up from his experiment, before heading straight to his room and making sure to slam the door behind him. 

He fell into bed and seethed for a little while longer, his only self satisfaction being that Sherlock would, indeed, have to get his own damn milk. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

When John awoke and stomped down to the kitchen the next day, Sherlock was absent, along with his coat and whatever creation he'd been prodding at the night before. There was, however, fresh milk in the fridge, so John got to making himself a cup of tea and checked his phone. No messages from Sherlock, and as he had expected but secretly hoped against, no change-of-heart texts from Rachel either. 

He sat down in his chair with some toast and his tea, turning on the telly and watching the news, a brief flash of annoyance crossing his path as a report on government spending had a familiar looking figure of one Mycroft Holmes lurking in the background. He went a few more hours of mindless television, before his phone vibrated with a text alert. He expected some demand from his flatmate, so was surprised to find it was a text from Lestrade instead. 

'He's driving us mental. Where are you?'  
'Im not his bloody babysitter. You deal with him' John tapped out his reply, brows furrowing in annoyance. He refused to be known as Sherlock Holmes' keeper. Mycroft and Greg could deal with the insufferable git on their own time, as far as John was concerned. 

With that thought firmly in mind, John stood and grabbed his coat, running a comb through his hair and brushing his teeth before giving Sarah a call and saying he'd duck in to help out for a few hours at the clinic. It was technically his day off, but it beat sitting around the lounge and waiting for Sherlock to stop sulking. 

It turned out to be a futile attempt anyway, as after an hour or so of dealing with coughs, colds, and various viral concerns, his door opened for his next patient and Sherlock himself strode in, sitting down in a huff in the chair reserved for patients.  
"I'm working, Sherlock," John frowned, standing and opening the door to gesture for his flatmate to leave.  
"And I'm a patient, Doctor," Sherlock replied just as tersely. John checked the patient file handed to him by an apologetic looking Sarah then, only to find that yes, Sherlock had made an appointment and was on the books to see John professionally. 

John briefly wondered what terrible crime he'd committed in a previous life to deserve this, before forcing himself to sit back in his chair and pinched at the bridge of his nose.  
"I'm busy, Sherlock. What is it?" He asked wearily, and Sherlock peeled himself out of his coat and rolled up an extensively bloodied sleeve.  
"I have an injury," Sherlock explained, resting his arm on John's desk as the doctor let out a hiss of surprise when blood immediately began to drip from the detective's arm onto the wooden surface. 

"What the hell have you done this time?" John snapped, panic creeping through him as he realised just how deep the cut on the detective's arm was. Before Sherlock could respond, however, the door burst open and Lestrade offered an exaggerated sigh as he shook his head. 

"You couldn't just go to the bloody hospital, could you?" Lestrade frowned, as Sherlock raised a brow and shifted his arm closer to John, his gaze not drifting from Greg's.  
"John is my doctor. His skills are above par to a substantial amount of the idiots that are working there, and I have more faith in John than a stranger," Sherlock replied calmly, as John began to pull out the equipment necessary for stitching up the wound. 

"You took a fifteen minute cab ride from a crime scene to get here," Lestrade chided, frustration apparent, "then sat here for God knows how long, bleeding out for all I knew, while I tried to track you down."  
"I did say I was seeking medical help, Geoffrey, do keep up," Sherlock drawled, as John began clearing the wound and numbing the area, "It's not like I was going to die from the injury. As expected from the killer, and yes, he most definitely is the killer going off of his shoes and the cuff links, his aim was terrible and he avoided all major nerves or arteries. It makes me wonder if he was even attempting to cause any injury at all with that lack of skill, considering how very litt--"  
"Christ, Sherlock, shut up for five minutes, would you?" John snapped, and much to both his and Lestrade's surprise, the consulting detective did just that. 

Greg filled John in as he worked, the latter pointedly ignoring the twitches of Sherlock's arm as he worked the needle through his skin. Apparently Sherlock had arrived in a state that morning, moodier than usual, and despite Lestrade's best efforts, had refused to listen to reason and had gone gallivanting after one of London's newest aspiring serial killers with no back up, only to be slashed with a switchblade as a result. Sherlock had always been a reckless individual, but this had been stupid even for him. 

"I don't understand how someone so brilliant can be such an idiot at times," John remarked, as he finished stitching Sherlock up and chanced a glance at the detective's face, only to find his flatmate focused intently on him already.  
"You keep me very well grounded, John. I find it distracting when we have disagreements," Sherlock explained earnestly. John felt colour come to his cheeks then, as Lestrade cleared his throat, hiding his grin behind his hand as he shifted on his feet.  
"Well, once you're all cleared by your uh... Doctor... Head down to the station would you?" He directed at Sherlock, who gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes never leaving John's face, even as the doctor finished patching him up. 

Once Lestrade had left, silence reigned for a few moments as John began to dress the newly stitched wound. It was short lived, however, as John made to pull back, and Sherlock curled his fingers around the doctor's wrist.  
"John," he urged, as John swallowed and attempted to tug his wrist free, to no avail.  
"Sherlock," The doctor sighed, reluctantly meeting his flatmate's gaze. 

"I'm aware that I am self centred at times, and, as you so eloquently put it, a colossal arse," Sherlock murmured, his fingers tightening, "But you help with that. You HELP, John. I understand that you think my attraction to you stems from the disdain I hold towards my brother, but that is truly only an added benefit to how I feel already. I apologise if I ever made you believe you were worth a mere fuck to me."

Sherlock leaned forwards, John still stunned from the sudden admission, until the detective was a mere few centimetres from the doctor's lips, his breath brushing against John's skin as blue eyes remained fixated, albeit heavy lidded, on John's own. 

"You may say you're straight, that you have no interest in me beyond platonic friendship, but I have observed more from your body language than your own mind is willing to accept," Sherlock murmured, voice rippling across John's skin in a flushed haze that the doctor wasn't quite willing to admit to, "I'm a patient man when I need to be, John Watson, but I have never had to fight so hard for what is mutually desired."  
"Then... Maybe it's not worth your time," John rasped, barely finding his voice through the confusing fog that Sherlock had cast over him.  
"Oh, but I whole heartedly believe that it is," Sherlock replied easily, silence holding for a few beats as his gaze swept across John's features. 

It was too much, and John jerked back, finally wrenching his wrist free as he cleared his throat and scribbled out some notes on Sherlock's file.  
"You shouldn't need a script for the time being. Paracetamol and ibuprofen should be enough," John offered on a voice shakier than he'd have liked, much to Sherlock's smug amusement, "I'll check the dressing later tonight. You should get some rest and eat something. It'd be best to keep your energy supplies up."

Sherlock stood then, pulling on his coat as he kept his eyes on John, who cleared his throat and offered a small nod.  
"I'll see you this evening, Doctor Watson," Sherlock murmured, voice a deep rumble within his chest. John returned to his paperwork as Sherlock saw himself out, before running his hands over his face. 

It really had been far too long if seduction from Sherlock, of all people, could leave John shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

He finished updating Sherlock's file and called Sarah in to collect it, resolving to contact some old flings to see if there could be some relief found in comfortable, decidedly heterosexual ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try not to be too long between updates. No promises though.


	3. Sherlock's Submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juuuust starting to get into the E rating... Please forgive me if this is just... Awful.

John spent the rest of his shift at the clinic having what could only rightfully be described as a big gay crisis. Or, at least, that was what he had begun referring to it as in his mind. But he wasn't GAY, not really, and when Sarah dropped off a stack of files and left with her skirt just beginning to ride up her thighs a little, John had never been more relieved to have a pulse of desire fire through him. So no, not gay then. 

He wasn't a sheltered man. He knew full well that bisexuality existed, as well as just about every other sexuality out there, it was just that he had never found himself identifying with anything other than the hetero component of the scale. Admittedly, he had done his share of experimenting back in his teens, and whilst he didn't find himself with a sudden urge to bed every eligible male he came across, he hadn't necessarily hated the experiences he had had either. He had just been so very much more interested in women, and once the experimenting had stopped, he'd never found cause to continue them any further. 

But Sherlock, as he so often was, had seemingly become an exception to a rule. 

It then raised a further question in John's mind of whether he was truly rattled by the idea of sexual attraction towards a man, or whether the turbulence within him was simply due to said male being Sherlock. He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands down his face, letting out a groan of mounting frustration as he looked at the clock and realised it was time to head home to Baker Street. To Sherlock bloody Holmes.   
"Is everything alright, doctor?" A voice asked quietly, and John removed his hands to find the newest member of staff (Angela, attractive, late twenties, sweet, shy) smiling softly at him from the door. 

"Yes, uh, fine," he offered in return, struck by a sudden thought that may very well bite him in the arse, "Are you up to much tonight?"  
"No, actually, was probably just going to do a little reading," she laughed, "Nothing too exciting."  
"Did you want to maybe... Grab a drink, then?" John tested the waters, and her cheeks flushed in response. A good sign, he thought.   
"Oh, I mean, I would like to, but your partner..." She trailed off and John felt the smile slip from his lips. Perhaps not a good sign after all. 

"I don't... I'm not seeing anybody," John replied tightly, and she flushed darker.   
"But the gentleman who came to see you today has you listed, and I just--"  
"What?" John grated through clenched teeth, before immediately rifling through the files on his desk for Sherlock's, barely even registering Angela's 'well... goodnight, Doctor' in the process. Once he'd found what he was after, he all but tore the file open and almost crumpled it in his hands as a familiar cursive script indeed stated 'John Watson' under partner/spouse. 

He was going to kill him. 

He was ACTUALLY going to kill him. 

*~*~*~*~*

Sherlock flinched just minutely as John threw the photocopy of his file onto the desk and stared him down. The detective threw a brief glance at the document, before returning his attention to the microscope before him.   
"No drinks with the new receptionist, then?" Sherlock offered casually, as John fought back the rage threatening to consume him entirely.   
"Partner?" He seethed, tapping the file, "PARTNER? Are you MAD? Wait, no, don't answer that, of course you bloody well are. Jesus CHRIST, Sherlock!"  
"We work together, do we not?" Sherlock pursed his lips briefly, still refusing to meet John's gaze, "it's accurate, in a sense. It's unfortunate that your attempted conquest took it out of context though, I imagine."

Another shred of John's sanity snapped, and frustration won out by miles as he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and forcibly pulled him from his chair, finally tearing shock and perhaps even fear from the man as Sherlock finally met his gaze.   
"You are not going to sit there and bloody well pretend like you didn't know exactly what you were doing, right down to the tee," John all but hissed, "I am no fool, Sherlock Holmes. You're going to tell me why you're being such a colossal prat about all of this lest I force the answer out of you, is that understood?"

John watched with a small sense of growing self satisfaction as Sherlock swallowed thickly, a breath of air escaping through parted lips as his eyes drooped just slightly, pupils dilat--..  
"Oh for God's-- you're ENJOYING this," John huffed, hands dropping from Sherlock's coat as the detective straightened his collar with moderately shaky fingers and cleared his throat. 

"It wasn't my intention for you to manhandle me, John, but no, I can't say I minded in the slightest that you did," Sherlock murmured, voice perhaps a little rough around the edges, "As for the file, I expected it to be a fact sooner rather than later, and truthfully, correcting and adjusting health forms is a chore if nothing else. I was being pre-emptive."  
"You were being an absolute prat, is what. Although I suppose I can't say I expect anything less than that from you, lately," John huffed, turning on his heel as he headed back for the door, "I'm going to the pub."

He got as far as putting his hand on the door handle, before he was being wrenched around by his wrist and being crowded back against the wooden surface by a fiercely determined flatmate.   
"John, I have been waiting here for hours, for you to wake up to yourself and actually utilise that brain of yours for long enough to realise that you WANT this," Sherlock murmured, grip vice like as he guided John's hand to rest against his very apparent arousal and oh God, John's brain was abruptly beyond any function at all. 

"You can attempt to deny it all you like, but this isn't a solitary experienced desire," Sherlock continued to speak, eyelids drooping just slightly as he continued to crowd closer to the frankly overwhelmed doctor, "You want me, John. We're wasting time debating that which is already fact, when we could be using that time in decidedly more beneficial ways. All it would take for me to pull you apart at the seams is a simple yes. Provide me with consent, John, and I'll provide you with anything you ask for in return."

John's thoughts were still derailed, his hand still cupped against Sherlock's prominent proof of his intentions, his breath struggling to make its way from his lungs, as he stared into his flatmate's eyes and thought for what must have been the millionth time that Sherlock was insane. He was, however, (as was frequently the case) right. God damn, was he right, and John's hormones and base desires were quickly overcoming every other thought of 'I shouldn't' that flitted through his mind. 

Still, the gentleman and the paranoid friend within him still held out as long as it could as he furrowed his brows and watched the flicker of impatient annoyance crossing Sherlock's face. 

"Sherlock, I'm not sure that we should... I'm not... I don't even know what..." John struggled to form a full sentence, even as Sherlock shifted ever closer, his lips a breath away from John's own, his free arm curling possessively around the doctor's waist.   
"Honestly, John... You really ought to just shut up and kiss me," Sherlock breathed, sending a shiver through John's entire being and a very resounding 'yesyesyes good idea' through his mind. 

"Christ, we're both mad," he murmured once more in resounding defeat, only just managing to catch sight of Sherlock's manically triumphant grin before he was threading a hand roughly through curled locks and tugging Sherlock's mouth to his own with instantaneous enthusiasm. 

As was the case with seemingly everything Sherlock did, kissing was a skill with which the detective exceeded in leaps and bounds. John felt himself drowning in the plush press and pull of those stupidly perfect Cupid's bow lips, soft skin encompassing his own as a heated puff of breath caressed at his skin. Sherlock was greedy, starved, as his hands slid around John's waist, coming to rest at his hips as he pressed the doctor against the door and continued his ministrations. 

Sherlock was far from shy, his tongue pressing insistently against John's lips and demanding attention, as he slid it to meet the doctor's own. John acquiesced just briefly, barely having a moment to relish the sensation, before his tongue was being pulled between his flatmate's lips and sucked teasingly. Despite his best attempts, his hands all but scrabbled against Sherlock's coat and an approving groan was torn from his throat. 

Sherlock's own approval made itself known in the form of a low hum, his mouth pulling from John's to trail open mouthed kisses along the doctor's jaw, ascending to his ear.   
"You're infuriatingly ignorant when you choose to be. All the time wasted fighting this, that could have been spent pulling each other to pieces," Sherlock murmured throatily, tugging John's lobe between his teeth just momentarily as he ground just slightly against the doctor's thigh, "You make me want to dissect you. I want to shred you and find exactly what it is that makes you so exceptional. I need to know how to tear you apart and mould you back together with my bare hands."

As far as dirty talk went, this was a new kind for John, but it didn't stop the searing arousal that pulsed thick and heavy and shot straight to his aching cock as he wantonly pressed his crotch to Sherlock's thigh.   
"Christ, Sherlock," he breathed, the detective's mouth setting to work at his collarbone, laving with a promise that John was embarrassingly keen for the detective to fulfil.   
"I'm going to mark you, John," Sherlock rasped, teeth grazing just slightly, "I refuse to share."

John responded in kind by lacing fingers through thick curls (and GOD, now that he was doing it, he'd felt like he was fulfilling an unspoken lifetime's desire) and tugging firmly.   
"Do it," John urged breathlessly, and there was a brief moment of satisfaction where Sherlock's own breath caught dramatically in his throat, before the detective was on task with the mission at hand and John's head was falling back against the door hard enough to bruise. 

Hands fumbled, breaths stalled, and hips ground desperately in attempts of friction for what felt like an eternity, before John's patience began to wear thin, satisfied enough with the bruise the detective had left on his skin. He took Sherlock by the wrists and spun him, pressing him swiftly to the door in a move that briefly winded his flatmate, as the detective watched on with growing curiosity and lust blown pupils.   
"This doesn't make things any better. It doesn't excuse you for being a prat," John said lowly, leaning forward to briefly catch Sherlock's lip between his teeth and pulling back swiftly enough to have Sherlock arching back toward him, "If anyone has right of ownership here after this entire bloody fiasco, Sherlock Holmes, you best believe that it's me. Do you understand?"

Sherlock didn't say a word, eyes wide and breath coming in short gasps as he wriggled half heartedly against John's grip on his wrists, seemingly reminding himself that John had the upper hand and only fuelling his debauched expression further. Sherlock had been so aggressive mere moments earlier, but John knew now with a resounding clarity that this is what Sherlock was made for. 

Every order Sherlock had followed with no question, every time he'd shut his mouth with a snap on John's command, it all came to the surface of the doctor's mind, and a rush of desire speared through him as it fully dawned on him that Sherlock enjoyed being bossed around. That he could play the leader all he liked, but he was so very inclined to be ordered, commanded, and the thought was all consuming. 

John pressed Sherlock tighter against the door, allowing himself the briefest moment of relief in the form of a subtle grind against a clothed thigh, before he tapped Sherlock's wrists against the wooden surface. 

"Answer me," John pressed with as much authority as he could inflict in his lust hazed voice, and Sherlock's response was near immediate. His pupils dilated even further, his breath wavering on its exhale, and his body cowing just slightly.   
"Yes," he breathed, "God, yes."  
"Tell me what you want, then," John pressed, nuzzling at the column of Sherlock's throat as the detective bared his pale skin in submission. 

"You. I want you," Sherlock breathed, and John nipped just briefly, tugging a stuttered groan from Sherlock's lips.   
"Not good enough," John chided, lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock's gaze before fierce determination flashed through the detective's eyes and John's stomach twisted in eager anticipation.   
"I want you to fuck me, Captain Watson," Sherlock rasped, gaze fierce with longing and an unspoken challenge that if John didn't get on with it, Sherlock may very well attempt the upper hand once again. 

John bit back the swell of pure want that burnt through him then, bruising Sherlock's lips once more with a heated exchange of kisses, before he was stepping backwards and tugging Sherlock towards the detective's room. 

If Sherlock wanted John to take control, John was more than willing to oblige. 

But he fully intended on making Sherlock completely lose his in the process, and quite simply, he couldn't wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am sorry in advance. This could be horrendous.


End file.
